


I'd find myself swallowed, drowning in your heat

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band), VIXX
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Sad Minseok, just kinda sad in general, sad sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which frost spirit Kim Minseok has a forbidden, angsty tryst with spring spirit Cha Hakyeon</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd find myself swallowed, drowning in your heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [candyfairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyfairy/gifts).



> the term for cold snap in korean is 꽃샘추위 “the cold that envies the flowers” and this was my general guiding principle for this fic

Hakyeon flickers briefly in his vision, calls his name, and Minseok aches—an ancient, ancient ache—his heart nearly imploding as his starved eyes drag over Hakyeon’s slight body. Slight, so slight, for the utter weight it has in Minseok’s life.

Beckoned, Minseok trembles, swallows, stumbles forth, weary, weak, wanting lips, eyes, skin.

Hakyeon smiles, and flowers bloom. Azaleas, soft and shy, delicate and weak and sweet and oh so beautiful, in bursts of red and pink and gold across the harsh, harsh white of melting snow. 

Daylight breaks through the clouds then, and pink halos of warmth and light surround Hakyeon, caress him, embrace him. He’s like the sun, and after 3 months of clamoring out for him, destroying and hurting for him, Minseok is briefly immobilized, the warmth of it almost painful, unbearably beautiful, searing in its perfection.

It hurts. It _always_ fucking hurts.

Too much. Too much. Too much. After so, so, so long.

Hakyeon is—light, good, warmth, something of hope after Minseok’s awful, empty rule, his ugly, ugly domain. 

He’s too beautiful, too fragile, too easily marred, fragrant and fluttering and fleeting. And Minseok exists just just just as a foil, a foil to Hakyeon’s entirety. The glittering hope of spring always looks so stark, so beautiful against the blight of winter desolation, and Minseok is never quite what Hakyeon needs, what Hakyeon deserves. 

Minseok is due to leave, is _supposed_ to leave, but Hakyeon never ever ever says no. And Minseok can never quite resist the temptation.

And even after all this time, Minseok is ever disconcerted by Hakyeon’s smile, his skin, his laugh, his moans in those brief beautiful moments when their lives intersect, their bodies intertwine.

Now now now if he only allows himself the luxury—the ill-advised luxury—of pressing closer, tasting Hakyeon’s plush, perfect mouth, trembling at the warmth of his smile, his skin, his laugh, his moans.

They’ve been doing this for lifetimes, finding one another in that sweet, sweet moment where seasons intersect. Winter and spring, they are at their weakest, most vulnerable like this, the receding waves of Minseok’s life, the waxing waves of Hakyeon’s birth. Most most most desperate for their fill, their fix—like this. 

They don’t have much time, and it’s Hakyeon that moves first, pressing forward, swallowing down Minseok’s needy whimper of relief. Hakyeon tastes like home, like hope, honey thick and overwhelming on his tongue, and Hakyeon’s arms twine around his waist, hold him steady.

He’s shaking. He’s shaking. 

And though the burn is allayed, though Minseok is indulged, debilitating jealousy somehow still laces with the relief that suffuses his bones. Possession—dark and cold and ugly and violent—curls tight beneath his skin, crawls up his spine.

_Take. Once more. Just take take take. Yours, yours, yours._

Hakyeon he doesn't understand. Hakyeon could never hope to understand.

And Minseok is still scared to touch him sometimes, scared of staining him, hurting him, taking more than he is due. He’s so _starved_ , but Hakyeon just marvels at his touch, gasps and presses for more. 

Minseok melts into his kiss, his embrace so, so readily, demands more of it—of him in the next breath, intent on utter consumption.

And they collapse into one another, collapse on the floor, too, cushioned by a bed of flowers. Sweetpeas, violet and pink glittering in Minseok’s periphery, glittering with crystals of ice, Minseok helpless to control himself as he swallows Hakyeon’s soft moans, trembles at his nimble fingers. Hakyeon’s lips wander to his jaw, his fingers dancing down Minseok’s sides, and Minseok’s lips part on a heavy moan. 

He’s burning. He’s burning. 

They’re already naked save for the wreath of flowers woven into Hakyeon’s disheveled hair, the perpetual frost looping through MInseok’s own, and Hakyeon’s hand rest there briefly, warm, warm wandering fingers tracing in reverence, remapping, relearning as he cradles Minseok’s body, whispers that he loves him over and over and over again. The words are so heartbreakingly beautiful, quiet and painfully true, he aches. 

Hakyeon thinks him something worthy of love, comes back every year because of it.

Hakyeon thinks of him in kisses of frost, curls of exhaled breath, glittering crystals on blades of grass, snow painting hollowed out husks of trees. He thinks of him in potentials, in almosts, in hope, in the glow of sunlight across pillows of snow. He thinks of him in scattered footprints dotting the painfully white horizon, in restless, playful winter winds whistling past his ear. 

Minseok, Minseok thinks of him— _knows_ him—in shades of gold, kisses of sunlight, wafts of cherry blossoms, and the lazy hum of bumblebees. He thinks of him in the languid comfort of spring, in life.

Minseok isn’t wrong, as Hakyeon is. 

_Life isn’t always beautiful_ , Hakyeon has argued, gasping and shuddering but arching—always, always arching—into his touch, silently—sometimes even vocally—begging for more. _Spring isn’t always beautiful. No, there’s destruction in it, too. Flowers that die out and wither in the sun’s sudden warmth, thunderstorms breaking blossoms too weak weather their pounding force, devastation and destruction as the sheltered return to the fields. Life is accidents. Life is messy. Life is cyclical. Life—life is death._

And and and there’s a harshness in him, too. Loss in him, too. Cruelty and jealousy and pain. Hakyeon divorces the young, naive blades of grass from their daily kiss of frost, separating them as they like they’ll separate Minseok from Hakyeon and again and again every single year, over and over and over, never ever easier, never ever bearable. A little death to mirror their own. A little loss to mirror their own.

But no, Minseok is death incarnate, jealous winds and suffocating frost and loss and loss and loss, and Hakyeon, he will never quite know what it means to leech the warmth out of something beautiful, something precious and delicate and pure.

Hakyeon has never loved as Minseok loves.

Hakyeon should never love as Minseok loves.

But Hakyeon wants, at least. Him, at least. And Hakyeon thinks there is beauty in this, value in this—at least. He lets himself be taken like this. He _wants_ Minseok to take him like this, encouraging him even now with a bared neck and hot liquid eyes, and Minseok is still not quite strong enough—after all this time—not quite level enough, selfless enough to deny himself. 

Hakyeon is the sweetest, sweetest gift, agonizingly receptive, unbearably beautiful.

Strewn across a bed of flowers, dew-kissed blades of grass, Hakyeon is a beautiful mess of shuddering moans and trembling limbs, so solid, so sure, but still too fragile to the touch. And Minseok is debilitated by the tormenting gnawing of his waxing want. Hakyeon’s want, too.

Minseok aches to touch him, and Minseok is too weak to deny himself. Hakyeon to eager for him, too. 

Frost creeps from Minseok’s reverent, greedy, greedy fingertips, claiming more than he’s supposed to, wanting to claim more than he’s supposed to. The frost glitters gorgeous, brief of on Hakyeon’s warm skin, ephemeral, too quickly fading, trickling to bleed into the rivulets of sweat already caressing Hakyeon’s skin. Minseok quells a shudder, eyelashes fluttering heavily at the sight. 

Hakyeon reaches out to cradle his face, smiling again, blooming again. His touch is soothing, petal-soft but heavy, heavy with love, and Minseok is again rendered speechless, immobile, suspended above him and wanting, wanting, wanting. 

Like this, cradled, held tight, like this loved in spite of himself, wanted in spite of himself, Minseok is jealous and greedy and reckless. He feels entitled at these moments, feels worthy of Hakyeon, and he wants to steal him away, too. Wants to keep him forever, destroy him in the process.

Minseok has to swallow past the fathomless ache of it, soothing it in part with succulent kisses down Hakyeon’s chest, desire-heavy fingers down his sides, intent thrusts of his hips.

It’s a fever pitch beneath his skin, mounting, mounting, mounting as Hakyeon pants into Minseok’s shoulder, writhes upwards to graze Minseok’s hip. 

He wants him. Oh, how he wants him. 

Arms twining around Minseok’s waist, Hakyeon sets the pace, rocking up as Minseok rocks down, messy kisses exchanged in the painful beats between breaths. His thighs quake beneath Minseok’s own, hot, hot skin catching and dragging in a way that has pleasure roaring through Minseok’s veins.

Hakyeon’s blooming further, a rhapsody of color, beauty to accompany every rich, rich moan. The foliage is thicker now. Vines now, looping, twining. They helplessly, mindlessly urge him closer as Hakyeon’s body trembles against his. Hakyeon pants into Minseok’s mouth, shudders into Minseok’s touch. His lips part, eyes flutter, neck lolls back in pleasure. 

He drags so hot and hard against Minseok’s own erection, and Minseok braces himself on one trembling arm, grasps them both. Hakyeon’s face pinches with pleasure, a breathless moan spilling from Hakyeon’s parted lips. Soft and forbidden and beautiful, like the whistle of soft winds through cherry blossoms, fleeting sounds that he can only ever watch from afar, never ever ever touch, never ever taste. He swallows them whole now, reveling in them, greedy and selfish for more, gorging himself. They’re sweet and warm on his tongue as he chases the lingering sweetness of Hakyeon’s want. Wrong, weak, not quite the same as Minseok’s own, but similar enough. 

There’s exhilaration, some manner of relief, in taking pleasure of Hakyeon’s pleasure, earning the heavy touches and heavier moans, feeling the reckless, helpless pulse of Hakyeon’s hot, hot, hard, hard response with every heartbeat. 

He wants to taste. He needs to taste. 

Heady with it, drunk on it, Minseok starts to glide downwards, intent meandering lips and lazy touches, but Hakyeon tugs his hair, tugs him back. His mouth is wet and open and oh so insistent, and Minseok loses himself in the sweet wet heat of Hakyeon’s mouth, his fingers closing around Hakyeon’s cock instead. He tugs in a way that has Hakyeon biting on his lip, scraping down his spine before breaking free of their heavy, heady kiss. He pants hot and wet against Minseok’s throat, shuddering in his hold as Minseok rolls his hips forward to grind against him, too, let him know that this is everything for him, too. 

And Hakyeon starts to fall apart just for him.

More flowers bloom the closer he gets, lush, luxurious displays of color. Red and white and pink roses, a grazing of thorns against the sensitive skin of Minseok's throat, his shoulder, his chest, the pain only serving to heighten the excruciatingly pleasure.

And oh, there’s a bite to him, too, Hakyeon continues to insist, hurt to him, too.

But there is something fluid and gorgeous even in his frantic bucks for more. There is something soft and beautiful even in the bite of his fingernails against Minseok's shoulders, the cut of his teeth at Minseok’s throat. 

And this is the closest that Hakyeon comes to loving as Minseok loves. 

“I love you,” Hakyeon pants, chants, the words searing against his skin. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And Minseok revels in the words, stroking faster just to taste more desperate confessions, shuddering at the honey-thick pleasure coursing through his veins. 

Hakyeon’s pants bloom into kisses, devolve into bites, and Minseok’s eyes fight to stay open, fist trembling, cock jumping. 

Hakyeon’s sunkissed skin is golden and flushed, warm and solid against his own, and Minseok shivers, chasing the heat of it, leeching it as winter does all things. Taking without permission, though he has it, though Hakyeon wants him, too. 

Minseok wants to bite, to bruise, to brand some sort of lasting mark onto this forbidden skin as Hakyeon always always does, but he wouldn't be able to stop, he knows. Wouldn't be content. Tempted, he’d take too much.

Minseok’s hold, his control, it’s ever weak, ever fleeting. 

Because Minseok doesn’t love him in quiet kisses of dawn and soft breezes through blooming petals. He doesn’t love him in pinks and golds and the lilting ambiance of bird songs. 

No, Minseok loves him with destruction and desperation and desolation and debilitating desire. Violent and dark, his love is frozen wastelands, jealous blizzard storms, dead leaves, dead trees, death, death, death. 

Minseok doesn’t love him as he was meant to be loved.

But it's the only way he can love, and Hakyeon, Hakyeon loves him back, wants him back, grinds, kisses, touches back in the hottest reminder of this fact. 

“I love you,” Minseok manages, a curse, a distraction, his voice raspy and thick with desire, strained as his cock catches against Hakyeon’s, the friction deliriously perfect. 

He's so painfully close. 

_Come with me_ , he swallows back, around a moan. _Never ever leave me. Let me claim you truly even—especially—if it’s hurt. Please Please Please_. 

And in these moments, more than ever, he wants to sear his mark into Hakyeons’s skin, claim and rend apart with the sheer force of his want. Give into the awful heavy want tearing the seams of his sanity. 

Hakyeon wasn’t meant to be loved like this. 

Hakyeon can’t love back like this. 

But Hakyeon can kiss, can touch, can cajole, can love love love—in his own beautiful, blessed way—until their breaths mingle, their bodies tremble, collide, press close close close, scraping at the awful, awful edges in their messy desire for more, more, more. Hakyeon can sooth the agonizing hunger, mask it with pleasure, with warmth, with the beauty, the birth, the hope of spring. 

Seasons pass like this, lifetimes, eons of time trickling through his fingers. The sweetest almost forever on his tongue, lodged in his throat as Hakyeon gasps and trembles and comes, comes, comes—just just just for him.

There is hope and beauty in it, this tiny, tiny beautiful, beautiful death. 

Minseok’s death, it’s Hakyeon’s life. His rebirth. And Hakyeon looks the most beautiful stealing the breath out of his lungs. He looks most irresistible in these moments of utter possession, utter consumption, Minseok melting, fading, fading, fading into the consecrated ruins of their bed of flowers.


End file.
